


However Improbable

by Fialleril



Series: The Adventures of Sherlock Holmes, Ace Detective [1]
Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Aromantic!Asexual!Sherlock, Asexual Character, Asexual!Sherlock, Asexuality, F/M, Fourth Wall, Gen, Science of Deduction
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2010-08-24
Updated: 2010-08-24
Packaged: 2017-10-19 23:50:31
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,401
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/206550
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Fialleril/pseuds/Fialleril
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>In which John tries to deduce Sherlock's sexuality, and Sherlock has much more important things on his mind. Like omelets and false moustaches.</p>
            </blockquote>





	However Improbable

**Author's Note:**

> This is by far the most self-indulgent thing I have ever written. I regret nothing. Actual story notes at the end of the fic.

**However Improbable**

It began that night in Angelo’s, with the incredibly awkward conversation that ended in John concluding that it was fine, it was all fine, everything was fine. No problem anywhere.

Except that it wasn’t. Fine, that is.

Well, it was _fine_ , of course, it wasn’t like he had a problem with any of the possibilities or anything. So it was fine. It was just that, well, he was curious.

And John didn’t think there was anything wrong with being curious. It was normal. People like to know these sorts of things about their flatmates, right? At the very least so you know what pronoun to use when your mate says they’ve got a date.

Only, Sherlock didn’t ever have dates, did he?

But still. It was the principle of the thing. And besides, they’d now survived near death together at least three times (four, if you counted the incident with the trapeze, which Sherlock didn’t but John bloody well _did_ ). That had to make them friends. And friends knew these kinds of things about each other.

So he was curious. But with Sherlock, you couldn’t just _ask_. He’d already tried that, which had led him to this dismal state of unsatisfied curiosity in the first place. Probably, a little snide corner of his mind (which sounded disturbingly like Sherlock) thought, he’d have to _deduce_ it.

Well. That was a challenge, if ever he’d heard one.

*

John could admit, if only to himself, that he had never really been much at planning dates. Dinner and the cinema was about as creative as he got, most of the time. After that business with the Chinese circus, he thought he might be justified. Sarah said she preferred simple anyway, so it all worked out.

Tonight he had reservations for an Indian place halfway across town. It was pretty far for both of them, but it was in an area John hadn’t yet had a near-death experience in, which meant the meal would be that much more enjoyable.

He had just buttoned his nicest jacket and was checking his hair one more time before heading out, when Sherlock, who had appeared to be dozing against the sofa, sat bolt upright and declared, “Of course! A false moustache!”

He leapt up, grabbing his coat and shrugging into it without ever apparently removing his fingers from the touchpad of his phone. No, John realized, not _his_ phone. It was the pink phone again. Great. It was going to be one of _those_ nights.

“Come along, John,” said Sherlock, half dragging him out the door. “We have an appointment to keep on Leadenhall Street.”

John tugged rather ineffectually at the sleeve of his own jacket. He didn’t succeed in getting Sherlock to release him, or even to stop, but he did slow him down a bit.

“Sherlock, I can’t. I have a date tonight.”

That did stop him. Sherlock turned on him with a look of supreme annoyance. “What, again?”

“Yes, again!” John exploded. He was aware that getting angry with Sherlock usually had a less-than-nonexistent effect, but he couldn’t seem to stop himself. “That’s what you do when you like someone! Christ, Sherlock, we’re _dating_. Do you even know what that means?”

Sherlock regarded him coldly. “I merely thought,” he said, in that tone he saved for moments when he was so evidently superior to anyone else in the room that it wasn’t even worth putting on the effort for snide, “that Sarah might prefer to spend her evenings with someone else, after what happened at the circus.”

John realized that he had not actually mentioned that his date was with Sarah, then gave the whole argument up as lost. It was always pointless arguing with Sherlock, anyway.

“She thinks that life-threatening experiences can bring people together, or something,” he said. “I don’t know. Anyway, we’re having dinner tonight. So I can’t go shopping for false moustaches with you.” And before Sherlock could talk him into it, as he always did, John made his break.

He should have known it wouldn’t matter. Two hours later, he and Sarah were halfway through their meal when a thin, well-dressed man burst through the door of the restaurant, his eyes darting about wildly. He was sporting a moustache that wouldn’t have been obviously fake at all, if only it were fully attached to his face.

John sighed. “Well,” he said, “that does it for this place.”

As if on cue, Sherlock careened through the door, instantly spotting the poorly-moustached man and fairly leaping over several tables in pursuit of him. As the man was all but cornered in the back of the restaurant, John didn’t think this was strictly necessary.

The night wasn’t a total loss, though, because Sarah was laughing.

“Come on, you two,” she said, as a rather harried looking Lestrade and a disgusted Anderson arrived to escort the moustached man off the premises. “I’ll buy you both an ice cream.”

“I prefer frozen yoghurt,” said Sherlock with distaste, but he came along anyway.

*

John came home on the night of March 6th weighed down under a load of groceries that by all rights should have required five arms to carry. He staggered up the stairs (no help from Sherlock, of course) and into the kitchen, only to find half of the refrigerator taken up by an assortment of human eyeballs, severed toes, and what appeared to be a recently-fresh fruit basket. Huh. The fruit basket was new.

There was, of course, no space for the milk. This was typical, and John had developed a fairly discerning eye for what he could probably remove without Sherlock going completely mental. The fruit basket, he decided, didn’t look very experimental at all, which undoubtedly meant it was poisoned. He removed the eyeballs, instead, and set them in the microwave for the time being.

“Set them to cook at five minutes on medium power, John,” he heard Sherlock call languidly from the direction of the sitting room. John snorted. He didn’t even bother asking how Sherlock had known.

“Not so much as a ‘Hello, John’ or even a ‘please,’” he muttered under his breath, heading towards the sound of Sherlock’s voice more out of habit than anything else. There hadn’t been any cases lately, and it was unlikely they had one tonight, or Sherlock wouldn’t be—

watching his porn?

John experienced a moment of utter shock, a long timeless moment in which he moved fully into the room, sat down on the sofa, bent to unlace his shoes—and suddenly registered just what it was on the telly as Sherlock said, “This is horribly tedious, John. There’s no plot to speak of.”

John gaped at him. There was really nothing that could be said to a statement like that.

Somewhere in the background, he was aware of the sound of three people having vigorous and enthusiastic sex. He was vaguely horrified at the thought that that turn of phrase was _almost_ Sherlockian, and that he was analyzing all of this in a very detached way, and that _Sherlock was watching his porn and he thought it was boring_.

John blinked, and was dazedly aware of Sherlock saying, “I don’t understand your taste in entertainment, John. This is even more atrocious than those Bond films.”

With a great effort of will, John snatched up the remote and turned the telly off.

“It’s _porn_ ,” he said. “It’s not really known for good plot structure!”

Sherlock regarded him with that infuriatingly amused smile of his. “So it’s even more pedestrian than the rest of your so-called entertainment,” he snorted. “What’s the _point_?”

John felt that gaping-and-staring expression come over him again. It seemed that was becoming a habit around Sherlock. “What’s the _point_?” he spluttered. “What’s the— If you don’t know—”

He stopped. Sherlock was smirking at him, in that I’m-surrounded-by-idiots way of his.

John groaned and scrubbed a hand over his face. “Oh,” he said from between his fingers. “You know. You’re just being a prick.”

Sherlock grunted and slouched even further on the sofa. “I’m _bored_ ,” he said. “I’m bored, and your porn is boring. How can you _stand_ it? Living your tiresome, sex-obsessed, meaningless workaday life, never noticing _anything_?” His eyes closed morosely and, John thought, somewhat overdramatically, and he sagged back against the sofa.

John decided it was far from his job to educate Sherlock about porn. “I don’t know how I stand it,” he muttered, with a significance that was predictably lost on his flatmate. He sighed, rose, and went to check the status of the eyeballs in the microwave.

*

“Do you need to go?” asked Sarah, eyeing him worriedly over her glass of wine. “If it’s something important, don’t let me keep you.”

“What? Oh no,” John snorted. He eyed his phone warily, and, as if to oblige him, it beeped to indicate another text received. He didn’t even bother looking at it. “It’s not important. It’s just Sherlock. He probably wants me to come home and throw the severed toes in the oven for him.”

Sarah stared at him. Her lips parted and her brows drew together in some combination of shock, horrified amusement, and curiosity. It was quite attractive, actually.

“Sorry,” he said, and tried to laugh it off. “Er, that isn’t quite like it sounded.” It was, actually, but she probably didn’t need to know that. At least, not on the sixth date. You needed time to work up to things like that.

“I just don’t think he really understands the concept of a date,” he added.

Sarah was smirking at him. “Maybe he does,” she said. “Maybe he’s just jealous.”

“I— _What_?”

“I don’t mean it like that,” Sarah laughed. “At least, I don’t think so. Although I _have_ heard rumors.”

John groaned. “Of course you have,” he muttered. “Everybody talks.”

Sarah shrugged. “What do you expect? People always talk. My sister had a male flatmate for four years, and our grandmother is still mourning their break up at family gatherings.” She rolled her eyes. “You just learn to deal with it, I guess.”

“I usually just try to ignore it,” John said. “But that’s a bit harder to do when your date brings it up.” He eyed her pointedly.

“All right, all right,” Sarah laughed. “I only meant that he sounds like he’s jealous of your time spent with anyone else. You seem to be the only thing resembling a friend he has.”

John found he couldn’t really argue with that. Actually, it was true enough that he felt a bit guilty, and reached for his phone to read the text.

It said: URGENT. NEED EGGS. SH

He snorted and passed the phone to Sarah, who raised an eyebrow at the text.

“It _does_ sound like an emergency,” she said, mirth dancing in her eyes. John smiled, and considered not going home that night at all.

*

He came back the next afternoon with two dozen eggs, as a sort of peace offering. He found Sherlock lounging on the sofa in that ridiculous satin dressing gown of his, cradling his violin but, thank God!, not attempting to play it.

“You’re late with the eggs,” Sherlock said, in a tone that was at once both mild and cutting. “I already borrowed some from Mrs. Hudson.”

John, who had just opened the refrigerator to find the remains of what appeared to be a spinach and mushroom omelet, merely grunted. Typical.

“Do you mind if I—” he started, but Sherlock was already saying, “I wouldn’t eat the omelet. It’s laced with arsenic. Very old recipe.”

John blinked. “But it looks half-eaten already!”

“Yes, well, there were far too many rodents in the alley, weren’t there?”

There was a pause while John debated whether this was even worth replying to, but before he could decide, Sherlock said, “If you’re quite finished wasting your time with dates, we have a case to investigate.”

*

“Maybe he’s asexual,” Sarah said with a shrug. Her tone had a disinterested edge that said she’d really rather talk about anything but Sherlock right now. John was normally good about recognizing that tone, but this time—well, she couldn’t just say something like that and expect him to change the subject.

“What, you mean like an amoeba or something?” he snorted.

Sarah rolled her eyes. “No, you ass. Like the orientation.” She smiled indulgently at his blank expression. “It’s not my job to educate you,” she said fondly. “Look it up when you get home. Right now I have more important things in mind.”

*

A search for “asexuality” _did_ turn up quite a few articles about amoebas. John didn’t bother much with them, though, since the first return seemed to be what Sarah was talking about. It claimed to be a “visibility and education” site, and John decided it couldn’t hurt to take a look. Sarah had been laughing, but he thought she’d seemed pretty serious under all that.

He spent the next several hours reading. He was methodical about it: he started with the basic definition and the FAQ, read what little research was available, read the popular articles (most of which were far too trite, simplistic, and tongue-in-cheek to be of any use), and, finally, started reading the forums.

Apparently, there were people out there who just weren’t interested in sex. At all. With anyone. It was, frankly, not a possibility John Watson had ever considered.

It made a certain kind of sense, though. And, while there wasn’t much research at all, Bogaert’s findings seemed sound. Enough so that they couldn’t be discounted.

The forums, though, seemed to be mostly anecdotal accounts of asexual experience, mixed in with people discussing their favorite movies, the best place to get Chinese in Chicago, and the latest antics of their cats. There were a lot of jokes about cake. It was 03:00 and his eyes were starting to glaze over. Sherlock, of course, was still awake, screeching away at his violin in the sitting room. John gritted his teeth and tried to think of it as motivation.

He blinked owlishly at the screen and saw that he was, apparently, looking at a thread about “famous aces.” He scanned quickly down the page, half focused on the words and half occupied in wondering if he should go in search of some earplugs.

 _Nikola Tesla  
Simone Weil  
Sherlock Holmes  
J.M. Barrie  
Ralph Nader  
Catherine of Sien—_

Wait.

He scrolled quickly back up the page, sure he’d imagined it.

 _Sherlock Holmes_

“Oh hell,” John said, not even bothering to worry about the fact that apparently he was now talking to himself out loud. He decided he’d better not let Sherlock see this, ever. God. He was impossible enough already. John didn’t want to think about what he would be like if he thought he was _famous_.

Still…He shook off the apprehension and blinked twice, rapidly, to clear his eyes. The post was a short one, and it began with a disclaimer. Maybe, if he was lucky, this person didn’t think Sherlock was really famous, either.

The post was by someone called “Jenna-rations,” which he supposed was meant to be clever. It said:

 _  
**Sherlock Holmes**   
_

_Okay, he’s not really that famous. Only in certain circles, really. He’s the world’s first “consulting detective,” and he has a website called[The Science of Deduction](http://www.thescienceofdeduction.co.uk/), if you’re curious._

 _The only reason I’ve ever heard of him, actually, is because my sister is dating his flatmate. And John talks about him all the time. Apparently he’s trying to figure out what his deal is. *rolls eyes* Everybody always wants to know, don’t they?_

Wait, Sarah had a sister? Oh, yes, she had mentioned her the once. Jenna. The girl who had to deal with all the talk because she had a male flatmate. That she wasn’t interested in. Right.

John groaned. _Of course_ Sarah would be the kind to share everything with her sister.

 _Anyway, here are the facts, thirdhand:_

 _Supposedly he never goes on dates, and John doesn’t think he’s ever been interested in anyone.  
He thinks sex and romance are distractions from important things. (Well, all right, I don’t think that’s how John actually put it, but it seems to be what he meant.)  
He thinks porn is boring. (And before you ask: I don’t know. I don’t know why John knows this, or why in the world he would tell my sister about it. But it seems to fit here.)_

 _Anyway, not much to go on, but he could be an ace. What do you all think?_

Most of the replies were from people saying that they didn’t know for sure, since they had never heard of Sherlock Holmes (something which made John feel considerably better about the state of the universe in general), but it did sound like he could be an “ace.”

They also said that John sounded like a pretty weird guy indeed, and that maybe he needed some hobbies.

John looked up from the screen, saw that it was now almost 05:00 and he had spent most of the night trying to ascertain his flatmate’s sexuality, and considered that they just might be right.

*

John dragged himself out of bed the next day (a Saturday, thank God) at the ridiculous hour of 10:00. He couldn’t remember the last time he had slept that late.

He staggered into the kitchen in search of breakfast, and found that the severed head had taken up residence in the refrigerator again. Well, _a_ severed head, anyway. This head was all but unidentifiable, as someone had seared most of the face off, with acid by the look of it. John grimaced, shut the refrigerator, and turned to the countertops. “Any other house in London, you’d find scones or biscuits or something,” he mumbled to himself, regarding a bottle of hydrochloric acid and a bagful of fingernails balefully.

There was an insistent beep from the direction of the sofa. John abandoned the idea of breakfast as a lost cause, and fished his phone out of the cushions.

OMELET STILL POISONED. DON’T EAT. SH

He groaned. Apparently, Sherlock thought he was an idiot.

There was another beep.

SCONES NOT POISONED. IN PACKAGE IN WC. SH

John had long ago given up wondering about the location of edible food in the flat. He did wonder where the scones may have come from, though. Certainly Sherlock hadn’t made them, and he hadn’t bought them either. As far as John could tell, Sherlock had never gone shopping in his life.

Another beep.

MRS. HUDSON MADE THEM. SH

John smiled. It might not be a bad morning, after all.

Beep.

EAT SEVERAL, THEN COME AT ONCE TO THE LAB. SH

Or it might be another morning as a lab rat. John chuckled to himself. He should have known breakfast would never be simple.

*

When he arrived at the lab, Molly took one look at him, raised her chin, and said, “I’m not getting you coffee, either, so don’t even ask.”

“Wouldn’t dream of it,” said John, too surprised to say much else. Molly had been a bit _different_ since the business with Jim. John knew it wasn’t his fault, or even Sherlock’s, really, but he felt a bit awkward all the same.

And apparently he looked so obviously tired that Molly felt she had to forestall a demand for coffee. Great.

“You might not need it,” said Sherlock, without even turning to look at him, “if you hadn’t stayed up all night studying human sexuality.”

John concentrated very hard on holding back the urge to ask how Sherlock had known. It never paid to ask when Sherlock was trying to show off, as he always was when volunteering information.

There was a moment of strained silence, as John struggled with his perverse desire to know, and Sherlock waited for the inevitable question. Then Molly, who had very little patience for male posturing these days, asked, “Did you learn anything interesting?”

John allowed himself a smirk. Probably Sherlock already knew every single thing he had read last night. It didn’t matter. John had passed his challenge. He’d done some deduction of his own, and, if he did say so himself, it was a damn sight better than “you’re gay because your underwear is green.”

He rocked back on his heels and grinned widely at Molly. “Yes,” he said, “I think I did.”

**Author's Note:**

> 1\. The false moustache and Leadenhall Street are a reference to the Holmes story "A Case of Identity," which is one of the more gloriously cracky of ACD's Holmes stories.
> 
> 2\. I'll leave it to you to decide what exactly Mrs. Hudson put in those scones. ;)
> 
> 3\. The website where John does most of his research is, of course, AVEN, and it's the first return on a Google search for "asexuality." Check it out if you haven't before!
> 
> The AVEN forums do indeed have several threads dedicated to famous aces, both real and fictional. Sherlock Holmes is one of the most popular choices for favorite fictional ace. I thought it was only right that, within his own universe, he should be on the RL list.
> 
> 4\. Anthony Bogaert is one of the few researchers working on asexuality. His preliminary findings indicate that at least 1% of the human population appears to be asexual, which correlates with Kinsey's earlier findings about human sexuality.


End file.
